by Lisa Berne
“I worry about you being alone with him.”
“I’ll be careful. Besides, he can’t very well carry me off with his mother right there.” She kept her tone light, but there was no answering smile from Christopher.
“Will you remember what I said?”
“Yes, Christopher.”
“Grazie, signorina,” he said, “goodnight,” and for a moment Gwendolyn thought he might take her hand—might hold it in his own—but he didn’t.
“Goodnight, Christopher.” She was unaccountably disappointed, and watched him leave the drawing-room and go toward the stairs. From behind her she could hear sounds of sweets being dumped back into the Fortnum & Mason box, and then the footman, standing next to the doorway, sneezed.
“Bless you, Sam.”
“Thank you, miss,” the footman said, and sneezed again.
Gwendolyn slowly retraced her steps into the drawing-room but stayed standing, feeling very awkward.
Helen paused for a moment to glare up at her. “You ought to have made Mr. Beck stay.”
“I don’t see how.”
“Well, you’re useless then, aren’t you?”
Her tone was angry and vindictive. So much for their being the best of friends, Gwendolyn thought. Had she failed Helen in some unknown fashion? She had tried, over these past weeks while living under the same roof, to be pleasant, attentive, courteous. But somehow it wasn’t enough. Helen was looking at her as if—why, as if she loathed her. And even as Gwendolyn thought this, Helen grabbed the watercolor portrait of herself and flung it into the fireplace.
“Helen!” gasped Lady Almira, and Owen scrambled to the hearth and snatched the portrait out of the flames. But it was too late. It was already ruined. He blew out the flames that licked along one side of the frame, then looked rather helplessly at Gwendolyn.
“I say, I am sorry.”
“Thank you for trying.” Never mind that she had spent hours creating the portrait, and after that, searching for just the right frame. Never mind.
Owen said to his sister, “You know, you’re the monster.”
“Shut up!”
“Helen,” said the Duchess, “your behavior is absolutely shocking. What have you to say for yourself?”
Helen was standing on the hearthrug with her hands clenched into fists and her mouth working. Lady Almira was quietly weeping, but other than that a heavy silence had descended. It was finally broken when the Duchess spoke again, her voice very stern.
“Well, Helen?”
“I don’t have anything to say! Except—” Helen paused, then kicked the Fortnum & Mason box, sending it perilously close to the fireplace, and said with a snarl in her gruff little voice, “Except that I hate you! I hate all of you!” She whirled and ran out of the drawing-room, her slippered feet pounding on the floor.
The Duchess sighed. “Gwendolyn, m’dear, I’m sorrier than I can say.”
“It’s all right, Cousin Judith.”
“I really don’t think it is. Thank you, Owen.”
Owen had pulled the box away from the fireplace and was back on his knees, gathering up the sweets. He stopped for a moment and said to her, “Grandmother, I’m sorry too.”
“I know you are. Your gift was thoughtless, and unkind, but Helen had no business behaving as she did. Almira, let’s go upstairs, and I’ll have my maid make a nice tisane. Hawkins will know precisely the sort you need.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” tremulously answered Lady Almira, rising to her feet with her shawl hanging precariously by one shoulder, and so the two ladies left the drawing-room. Owen doggedly kept to his task, and Gwendolyn went to sit next to Francis, sharing the sofa.
Pensively, she pulled her feet free from her white slippers, drew her knees up to her chin, and hugged them to her. There was an acrid smell in the air from the burnt paper and wood that had been Helen’s portrait.
“Quite the birthday celebration,” she said to Francis.
“Was it really? It seemed to lack a certain joi de vivre, but perhaps that’s just me.”
Gwendolyn nudged him with her toe. “Oh, Francis, were you even paying attention?”
“Well, I was thinking about a conversation I had last year with Grandpapa, about the tensions between conservative theologians and what might be called progressive theologians, or even radicals, depending on one’s perspective. He mentioned the Elizabethan Settlement as a foundational effort to resolve these tensions—it’s only ever been moderately successful, you know, and just last month the Archbishop of York gave a speech about communion practices that nearly set off a riot among the deans.”
Owen laughed and popped a chocolate into his mouth. “My God, Francis, but you are a corker.”
Francis only smiled, and Gwendolyn said, “May I have one of those chocolates?”
“Not worried about dirt?” Owen said.
“It’s the least of my worries.”
“Here.” Owen handed her a chocolate, and thoughtfully Gwendolyn nibbled on it. It was delicious, even if not entirely pristine. Yes indeed, it had been quite a birthday celebration. She wished Christopher had stayed.
Gwendolyn’s note was brought up by a porter.
Dear Christopher,
I would have had a slice of cake sent on to you, but after last night’s fiasco, Cousin Judith told Tyndale to share all of it with the staff. Which I think was a very good idea, don’t you? Breakfast was very uncomfortable. Cousin Judith forced Helen to apologize to Francis (who at first had no idea what she meant, having forgotten all about it) and then to me (she had thrown the portrait into the fire, you see, after you left), and I didn’t really know what to say except to try and be gracious about it—though, honestly, I’m not sure just how well I succeeded. And then half an hour later, Owen and Helen quarreled about who would have the last sausage. Poor Cousin Judith. Poor Lady Almira! I must say, I was glad when breakfast was over.
So, no cake for you, I’m afraid, ma sherry moo.
Would you like to go for a ride in Hyde Park tomorrow, around five? If so, let’s meet at the top of Rotten Row.
G.
Christopher set aside the note, then went restlessly to the wide bay windows of his front room. He looked out onto the courtyard below. It was raining heavily today, and he watched as half a dozen people emerged from the Albany’s main entrance with umbrellas which they opened against the downpour. For a moment he knew a powerful longing for the countryside—for the sea—for open spaces. He thought about Mauro and those expansive pastures on his estate, the gently rolling hills which would be vividly green this time of year, and the orchards come to life again after their winter sleep.
Christopher turned from the window and looked at the books he’d gotten from Hatchard’s, which lay on a side-table. He’d already sent Mauro’s on their way to Italy. What remained was The Bandit’s Bride and Birds of the British Isles and Their Ancient Domains. He went over and looked at them for a long time. An idea had come to him—or, rather, renewed itself—and he was weighing it in his mind.
Hugo Penhallow had told him: Do what brings you the most peace.
So Christopher got his jacket, and went out into the rain.
Under the shelter of Sam the footman’s umbrella, Gwendolyn went down the townhouse steps and into the Westenbury barouche. “Thank you, Sam.”
“You’re welcome, miss,” Sam answered, and sneezed. His face was a little flushed, and, leaning forward, Gwendolyn said:
“Sam, are you all right?”
“Oh yes, miss, right as a trivet.”
“If you’re sure?”
“Certainly, miss, thank you,” and Sam shut the door to the barouche. Gwendolyn settled the skirts of her gown and pelisse, and the Earl, across from her, banged on the roof with his walking-stick, the signal for the carriage to move, and so they began their journey to the Westenbury townhouse.
“Hullo,” he said, smiling at her.
It had been two days since she had seen Julian, and for some reason
it felt like years. Looking at him was almost like looking at a stranger—like the entrancing stranger he had been, that unforgettable night at Almack’s—oh, how very like a prince he was in the fairy tales, the embodiment of a girl’s romantic dream . . . but real. Living, breathing, alive. His hair as tawny as a lion’s, his eyes as green as the forest, with those fascinating flecks in them that reminded her of the gold bits floating in the sea at home.
A memory came to her then, from years ago. Hugo, having just gotten home from the wars, asking his younger siblings what they’d like to be when they grew up. She had been fourteen, a giddy, dreamy girl, and had said:
On the one hand, I want to do something useful and important. But on the other hand, I’d like to have some adventures. And I’d want so much to have a London Season and go to a different ball every night and have a beautiful wardrobe with all the latest fashions and meet my one true love.
And here she was—lucky, lucky her—having her London Season at last. She’d been to many balls. She had a beautiful wardrobe. And she had found her one true love. Who was sitting right across from her. Sometimes, Gwendolyn knew, people scoffed at the idea of love at first sight. But what did they know? Besides, it happened all the time in books. Which had to tell you something, didn’t it?
Gwendolyn smiled back at the Earl. “Thank you for coming to get me. I could have walked, though—your townhouse is only ten minutes from here.”
“You’d have gotten soaked.”
“It’s only a drizzle right now. Why didn’t you bring your curricle?”
“M-my mother thought the barouche would be more suitable.”
“Well, it’s certainly capacious. What have you been doing since last we met?”
“Mostly spending time with family, of course, but I did manage to slip away with Étienne to the docks.”
“The docks? Why?”
“There’s a sailmaker there—he’s commissioning a new mainsail for his racing yacht.”
“He has a racing yacht? Here in London?”
“No, in Bournemouth. We used to go every summer, for the races, and then we’d sail to Le Havre and from there go to Rennes—his family’s country estate is not far from there, you know. We haven’t gone in a couple of years, however. Pity. It’s tremendous fun.”
“It does sound like fun. But somehow Monsieur de Montmorency doesn’t quite strike me as the sailing type. I can’t picture him hauling up an anchor, say, or furling the jib.”
Julian laughed. “He has a crew to do that for him. He’s the captain, you see.”
“Hugo always says that a captain has to be able to do everything his crew does. He says it helps keep both the crew and the ship safe.”
“That makes sense. Still, good luck persuading Étienne to change his mind! He’s not what I would call a very biddable fellow.”
Gwendolyn nodded. But she didn’t really want to be chatting about de Montmorency. Something had been tugging at her, and now was the time, while they had a few minutes of privacy, to talk about it. She said, “Julian, Christopher Beck told me that you’d invited him to our wedding.”
“Yes, I thought you’d like that.”
“He also told me you said the wedding was going to be here in London, at St. George’s.”
“Yes, I did.”
“I thought—we were riding to Richmond, don’t you remember?—I thought we’d agreed to have it in Whitehaven.”
Julian looked a little uncomfortable. “Do you know, my love, I’m afraid it had simply slipped my mind. It was terribly careless of me. Do forgive me. Of course it can be in Whitehaven.”
“You mean that?”
“Absolutely.” He smiled at her, and Gwendolyn felt the constriction in her heart begin to unravel itself. “Sometimes,” Julian went on, “when I’m looking at you, my darling—well, all I can do is think about how beautiful you are, how you’re the woman of my dreams—how lucky I am to have you. How much I want you. Honestly, there are times I feel a little deranged. In a good way. Didn’t Shakespeare say that love is a kind of madness?”
Gwendolyn thought about it. “I believe he did. In As You Like It.”
“Well, there you are.”
It occurred to Gwendolyn that she wasn’t sure if she quite agreed with Julian’s line of thinking on this point, but there wasn’t much time left for private conversation and there was something else she wanted to discuss with him.
“Julian, if you knew that a married woman was having an affair with a man other than her husband—an unmarried man—what would you think about it?”
His eyebrows went up. “My darling girl, what a question! Why do you ask?”
“I’m just curious.”
“Is this someone you know?”
“It doesn’t matter. What would you think, Julian?”
He was looking uncomfortable again. “I daresay it would—well, it would depend.”
“On what?”
“Well, I suppose—that is, if it were happening among my staff, for example—I’d—I suppose, really, the best thing to do would be to have the woman let go. To set the right tone. Her husband would have to go as well.”
“And the unmarried man?”
Julian paused, his brow furrowed. “As for him—well—I daresay he’d be given a warning to not repeat his behavior.”
“Wouldn’t that be treating the woman and her husband unfairly?”
“Unfairly?”
“If you believe the woman’s behavior to be questionable, wouldn’t her—her paramour’s be as well? That’s what I mean about unfairness.”
“Well—well, perhaps so. It’s complicated, really.”
“Yes, it is. And what about the husband? Is he in any way responsible, or is he merely a victim?”
“I suppose—I suppose it depends.”
“Yes. And what if this affair was being conducted amongst the ton?”
“Well, I daresay—Gwendolyn, my dear, I—I’m wondering—may I ask why you’re concerning yourself with this subject?”
“Is it indelicate of me?”
“I’m rather surprised, that’s all.”
“Have I shocked you, Julian?”
“As I told m-my mother, you certainly have a lively mind.”
“So what if it was happening amongst some members of the ton?”
“Standards are, perhaps, a trifle different in the Upper Ten Thousand.”
“Why would they be? Shouldn’t the same morality apply universally? Assuming it’s a morality worth embracing. That’s what my grandfather would say.”
“It’s just the way things are, my darling.”
“Does that make it right?”
“I see your point, but I’m still not sure exactly why we’re having this discussion. When we’re married, you must certainly deal with the domestic staff as you see fit. Honestly, I’d rather talk about how beautiful you are. And how much I adore you.” He leaned forward to take hold of one of her hands.
Gwendolyn almost wanted to pull it away from him. But at the same time she could feel herself staring at his handsome face, studying him, drinking him in with her eyes, his broad shoulders, his powerful legs, the exotic and enticing manliness of him—could feel herself wanting to sway toward him, irresistibly, like one magnet to another. Her body overcoming her busy brain. Oh, she felt so unclear—frustrated—miserably ineffectual.
What was right and what was wrong? What had happened to her—to her life? She had met a wonderful man and they had fallen in love and they were going to be married. It had all seemed so easy—so simple—so straightforward. Oh, goodness, maybe love was a kind of madness. Because suddenly she wanted to grab his face and kiss him fiercely. Yes, just like you wanted to do with Christopher the other night, said a tiny little voice within, and immediately a wave of guilt rose up, massive and ominous, and swamped her. Was she a bad person? A bad, defective person? She had opened her mouth to reply to Julian and, feeling foolish, promptly closed it.
The carriage came to
a stop and Julian glanced out the window. “We’re here,” he said, and the faint note of relief in his voice didn’t escape Gwendolyn. Perhaps she was relieved, too. Maybe she was not only a bad, defective person but really also a coward.
It was, to say the least, a very lowering thought.
“And,” Julian went on, his voice cheerful now, “it’s stopped raining. Excellent.”
A footman came to open the door and help her out of the carriage, and shortly, she and Julian were entering a large, richly furnished drawing-room where the Countess—resplendent from head to toe in white satin and silk, a beautiful and regal snow queen—sat waiting to receive them, her blue eyes warm and glowing with friendliness and approval.
Chapter 11
“Gwendolyn, my dear, dear child!” Smiling, the Countess held out her hands, and Gwendolyn moved quickly to take them in her own.
“How do you do, ma’am?”
“I’m so happy to see you. Please do sit down, and we can have a cozy chat.” She released Gwendolyn’s hands to gesture toward a chair next to her own, and obediently Gwendolyn sank down into it. The Earl had just sat on a chair next to Gwendolyn’s when his brother Rupert came strolling into the drawing-room.
“Hullo, it’s my magnificent sister-to-be,” he said, just as if he had never engaged in secret little games with his feet, and hers, underneath a table. “Miss Penhallow, I do believe you get more beautiful every time I see you.”
As this was only the second time they had met, this seemed to Gwendolyn an annoyingly fulsome compliment, but she let it pass, and only said, politely, “How do you do, Mr. Durant?”
“Rupert,” said the Countess, “I don’t care for your waistcoat. It’s positively loud. Go and change it at once.”
Gwendolyn looked at Rupert’s waistcoat. It was made of pale green silk and embroidered in a subtle paisley pattern with violet thread, and featured two columns of small, embossed brass buttons.
Was it, she thought, loud? That was certainly a subjective term, especially since she had seen plenty of men wearing waistcoats that were considerably more vibrant in color and eye-catching in design. For example, there was that gentleman at the Aymesburtons’ ball whose waistcoat was fashioned out of shiny gold fabric, with buttons that flashed and sparkled like diamonds. At any rate, Rupert was a grown man, and—